The soft hum of the Celestines was the only sound that filled the air as they rested atop the hill. Aya lay next to him, her head nestled against his side, breathing slowly, her chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. The tribute to the Celestines lay untouched beside them, its faint glow still shimmering softly under the light.
Though the world below seemed distant, so small from their perch, the silence of the moment carried with it a depth that felt as though the very air around them was waiting for something—a quiet shift, a new understanding.
Aya's steady breathing was the only sign of life in their immediate vicinity. The Celestines shone brighter as the hours passed, filling the sky with their strange, otherworldly light. He watched them closely, feeling the weight of their presence, the subtle energy that seemed to pulse through the landscape. The world around him felt alive in a way he couldn't quite understand, yet, in his bones, he knew something was shifting, something important was being born in the stillness of the night.
For a long time, he sat there, his attention divided between the flickering stars above and the little girl beside him. Her small hand was loosely draped over his cloak, the warmth of her fingers contrasting with the coldness of his skeletal form.
Aya stirred briefly in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent before settling back into a deep, peaceful rest. The quiet was almost too much, and yet, he found himself oddly comforted by the soundlessness. There was a sense of peace here, on this hill, beneath the watchful eyes of the Celestines.
He had not intended to stay the night. He had not planned to rest, nor to sleep, but the weight of the day—of the small joy shared in their quiet moments—had worn him down. For the first time in what felt like ages, he let the stillness settle into him. He watched as the Celestines began to dim, their light softening as the night deepened. The transition was subtle, a shift in the air like the closing of a door.
As the light waned, a sense of quiet uncertainty grew. Aya stirred again, her brow furrowing as she seemed to dream of something unknown, her lips forming soft words, but none that he could understand.
From behind them, there was a rustle in the trees, a sound far too light to be a threat, but it was enough to stir his attention. His gaze shifted, as though sensing something out of place. The rustling grew louder, and it wasn't until Aya shifted that he realized someone was approaching.
It was Tanya.
The elder girl stood at the edge of the hill, her posture tense, her eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of trouble. Her brow was furrowed with concern, a tightness in her lips as if she were trying to force back worry.
"Mister," she called softly, but her voice was laced with a mixture of frustration and fear. She could sense something wasn't right. It was clear in the way she moved.
He nodded, silently acknowledging her presence. Tanya was protective of Aya, as any older sibling would be, but the urgency in her eyes hinted that something was amiss.
Tanya's gaze flicked to the sleeping Aya and back to him, as if measuring the situation. Her voice, barely above a whisper, carried a weight of unspoken words. "She's been up here too long, hasn't she? I told her it was dangerous to stay out here. The Celestines are beautiful, but they don't care about us the way we care about each other."
Tanya took a step forward, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the cloak around her shoulders. It was clear from her rigid posture that her worry wasn't just for Aya—it was for herself, too. The elder sister had been carrying too many burdens. Her concern for the girl she considered her charge was immense, but there was also the quiet terror of what could happen if something went wrong.
"She's always like this," Tanya continued, her voice carrying the weight of exhaustion. "She's always so... hopeful. Always believes that if she gives enough, the world will give back to her." Tanya looked down at the ground as if she were speaking to herself. "I'm afraid one day, the world won't be kind to her. I won't always be here to protect her."
He knew the depth of her concern, even if he didn't share the same fears. He was bound to silence, and yet, there was something in his stillness that spoke volumes to her. His presence was no longer a question of whether he belonged with them, but more of a question of what his role was in their lives.
Tanya moved closer, her eyes still scanning the horizon as though waiting for something to appear, something she wasn't sure would. Her voice dropped, quieter now, almost resigned.
"She doesn't realize how much she needs to be careful. There's danger in this world that isn't just from the brokenness... it's from the people who survive in it. The ones who haven't been touched by the Celestines." Tanya's hands clenched as she spoke, the weight of her words pressing down on her chest. "She needs to learn to be strong. Not just hopeful, but strong enough to stand on her own."
Her gaze flickered to Aya, her younger sister, still sleeping peacefully as though the world didn't exist outside her dreams. For a brief moment, Tanya's composure cracked, her emotions flickering behind her guarded eyes.
"I can't protect her forever," she whispered. "And I'm afraid she's going to learn that the hard way."
Aya stirred again, her hands fluttering as she dreamt, oblivious to her sister's turmoil. Tanya's hand hovered over her for a moment, uncertain. But, as if summoned by something only she understood, Tanya dropped to her knees beside Aya, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She let out a soft breath, her own worries slipping into the background for just a moment.
"She's my responsibility," Tanya murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "And if I can't protect her from the world... maybe I can help her see it for what it is."
The light of the Celestines dimmed further, the quiet of the hilltop settling like a blanket around them. The world was cold now, the warmth of the day long gone. Tanya's hand remained on Aya's shoulder, her fingers tight against the girl's skin as she gazed out at the glowing sky.
For a long while, there was nothing but the low hum of the Celestines in the distance, the only sound in the silent void. His presence by their side was a constant, a still force that neither interrupted nor abandoned them.
Tanya stayed for as long as it took, her gaze unyielding, even as she battled her own thoughts and fears. The world was broken. Aya's hope, her belief in the Celestines, was an anchor. But Tanya had learned long ago that hope alone would not save them. Strength, awareness, and resilience would.
As the night deepened and the light of the Celestines faded further into the backdrop of the world, Tanya rose silently, her gaze lingering on Aya before she turned and made her way back down the hill.
He watched her leave, his skeletal form unmoving, but his mind alert. The bonds between these children were formed of something far deeper than mere survival. They were stitched together by shared pain, unspoken love, and an unyielding belief in the power of the Celestines.
And for a fleeting moment, he thought he could almost hear their song—a quiet, distant hum, like the one Aya had described before. A song of hope. Of strength. Of something greater than all of them.
As the night passed and the first flickers of light returned to the horizon, he remained on the hilltop, still and silent, watching over Aya, waiting for the dawn to break anew.